American Horror Story - Season 2AU E5 - Skin and Bones
by leaftheweed
Summary: Asylum AU Episode 5: Violet and Tate are back at Briarcliff and this time both are patients. Winter is coming: The women's ward is hell, freezing over. Dandy's talent show is taking off but sinister secrets are getting stirred up in the process. Also included: Surgeries, necessary and un-. Beauty is skin-deep but ugly goes down to the bone... starting with the doctors.
1. Chapter 1 - The Inside

**2018**

It was close to 1:30 AM by the clock on Aaron's smartphone. The device was acting both as his flashlight and his video recorder as he crossed the floor of what used to be Briarcliff Manor's reception area. The once-majestic dark wood interior was blackened with age and neglect. Curls of something had drifted down to cover the floor, sealed in a thick blanket of dust. The teen's Converse hightops left tracks in the pristine mess.

"This is it," he murmured to his phone. His pulse was racing with excitement at the thought of how many hits his video would pull in when he posted it to his vlog. Nobody had gotten footage inside the condemned asylum before. "We're inside." He fine-tuned the focus. "Welcome to Briarcliff Manor, where thousands met their unfortunate ends."

He panned around to make sure the audience could see what he was seeing. His phone threw sharp light where he turned, highlighting the neglected state of the place. Aaron moved to the center of the room for another pan.

"Old photos show there being a statue in here," he remarked. He was still speaking softly. He was trespassing and that kept him alert and quiet. "But it's gone. Someone probably stole it."

He panned over the dusty wooden base where the statue should have been. There was a large cobweb attaching it to a nearby post. Aaron followed the post upward with his camera, up the central spiral staircase. The light from his phone didn't travel far at that angle. Made the room feel like it was closing in around him.

Aaron took in the claustrophobic experience, analyzing it briefly before deciding that was enough of that. He lowered his camera and saw in the view screen the most hideous face he'd ever seen. Distorted and sickly green in the light, the thing's jaw stretched long and its gaping hole of a mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Its eyes were solid white. The camera fought for focus and for an instant the thing looked like the missing statue of Saint Mary.

The teen danced back and looked over the phone at the foyer. There was nothing there. He quickly looked back at his phone but the screen, like the room, was devoid of the freaky thing he'd just seen. His heart was thundering like he'd never felt before.

"Fuck this," he breathed. He was awed that he'd actually seen something and while he was already beginning to rationalize the image he decided he could give it plenty of thought someplace else. In his shock he kept the video rolling, still kept up the vlog persona he'd crafted. It wasn't a live stream; he wasn't thinking about the reactions of a live audience. He wasn't thinking at all. "We're getting out of here, folks."

He turned to head back the way he came and the phone camera showed the doorway was blocked by a small group of people. They were of all sizes, wild-haired and filthy. Their clothes were tattered. Some wore what looked like the old uniforms the inmates used to wear. The silent people were just standing there, staring at him, barring his way out.

Then one took a step toward him and he bolted.

Aaron had studied maps of the asylum and knew better than to go upstairs. That was a dead end. He ran toward the back instead. There were large doors that barred the way to the inner guts of the hospital. They had been chained but one of the sturdy doors had fallen clear of its hinges so the young man ducked through without slowing, into the darkness beyond.

The air was very still on the other side of the doorway. Aaron got the sense he wasn't alone. Frantically he swung his phone around, shining the bright LED light all over. He didn't see anyone.

Seeing the corridor in person was far different from viewing PDF maps online. For one thing, the place smelled bad. Like rotting meat, rust, and dust. There were weird sounds in the darkness but none were coming from behind him so Aaron didn't think the homeless people had followed him.

He thought back to the maps and headed straight. If the images were correct, there would be another set of doors there that should lead to the main hall to the cafeteria. The cafeteria had several windows and doors. The windows were likely barred but he reasoned he should be able to get out through one of the doors.

He hadn't reckoned on the doors to the hall being locked tight, which they were. Heavily chained like the first set had been, only these ones were intact. There was no way out that way. Aaron tried to brace himself for the walk back into the strange and silent mob.

He didn't have long to worry about the matter: The ghastly ghoul he'd seen earlier had returned, and it was right behind him. It put a messy end to his troubles, shrieking its feral rage as it bathed the dusty hall with fresh blood.

Hours later, the phone was scavenged from the hall by filthy hands that carefully wiped away the gore.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

 **1968**

"Out in the hall!"

The shout roused Violet from her uncomfortable doze. When she opened her eyes she saw her cellmate was already awake, sitting up on the cot and staring at her. The woman was in her early 20s and had limp brown hair. Her eyes were large and sunken. She looked malnourished, gaunt of face and strikingly lean-limbed.

"Why are you in my room?" she asked, not rising from the bed.

The door was unlocked and Violet got to her feet. "They put me in here last night."

"All out!"

The woman's shout was annoyed. Violet headed out into the hall, leaving the bedding behind on the floor. She didn't know what else to do. The stringy-haired girl followed soon after, still staring at her. Violet looked down the hall to either side at the untidy row of inmates. It was strange being among them and she could tell a few recognized her. This caused a bit of a stir until Sister Agnus showed up with a switch to whip the knees of anyone who wouldn't fall in line and be quiet.

"Line up next to the heater," the Sister ordered.

The rows of women converged in a loose line. They weren't silent but they were a great deal quieter than they had been. One woman toward the middle of the slow-moving line kept muttering about how she was cursed. Another, an old woman with a limp, seemed to be whimpering about the hospital staff wanting her dead.

The hall was very cold and without anything to cover her feet, Violet soon found herself shivering and rubbing her arms for warmth. The short-sleeved nightgown wasn't much protection. She looked around again, taking note of what the other women were wearing. She'd never really thought about it before. Several had thick, drab shawls wrapped around their shoulders. Most had shoes or slippers or at least a pair of socks on. Many had sweaters. Still, just about every woman looked colder than she would like to be.

They all rubbed their hands and stamped their feet for warmth as they waited for the doors to the central corridor to be opened. The heater they were ordered to stand beside didn't put out any heat.

"Does this thing work?" Violet asked her cellmate quietly, motioning to the silent device.

The mousey woman widened her eyes. "They don't turn on the heat till October."

"We'll freeze!"

The line started to move then and the women filed out into the central intersection. They were led to the cafeteria where Violet hoped to catch sight of Tate but the men weren't in the room yet. When they were finally led in, she didn't see him with them. She wasn't surprised but she was disappointed. Concerned, too.

Breakfast was disgusting, consisting of greasy oatmeal, watery orange juice from concentrate, and dry toast. Violet ate the toast but she let a fat lady named Jewel have her oatmeal. The woman systematically hit up everyone near her for any portions of food they might not want. With some people, she didn't even ask but helped herself.

"I'm Rosemary," Violet's cellmate said midway through her serving of oily oats.

"Violet."

Rosemary smiled. "We're both plants."

A corner of Violet's lips tugged up. "Yeah. I guess we are."

The cafeteria was noisy. She'd never been in it at meal time before. The cacophony created by so many people of varying sanity was jarring. She found conversation gave her something to focus on, which helped.

"Why'd they put you in here?" Violet asked.

Rosemary shrugged and picked at her toast. She'd also let Jewel have her oatmeal. "I wanted to go to college in England. It would've been paid for but my parents didn't want me to go. It made me sad not to go so they sent me here to help my nerves."

Violet couldn't imagine a worse move. "Wow. Far out."

"What about you?" asked Rosemary. "Why are you here?"

"She's here because she kidnapped a psychopath." A girl with short blonde hair had wandered up the bench row and had overheard the question. Her answer was delivered gleefully to Violet rather than the girl who asked.

"Sit down, Shelly," one of the orderlies barked from the doorway. He wanted to chat up the nurse and couldn't do that if the patients weren't staying seated like they were supposed to.

She obliged him by squeezing in between Violet and the old lady sitting next to her. The old woman squawked in annoyance but made room.

"You kidnapped someone?" Rosemary asked Violet, looking scared. She did have to share a cell with the new girl, after all.

Violet's brows pinched and she shook her head. "No. Not exactly. I mean-" She paused, trying to figure out how to answer that question.

Shelly didn't give her a chance. "You heard about the clocktower shooter, right?" At Rosemary's vacant look the blonde girl continued. "There was a guy over in the men's ward who went nuts and shot a bunch of people."

"I heard he killed fifty people!" the wild-eyed woman next to Rosemary threw in.

"No, he didn't," Violet corrected.

"You did kidnap someone?" pressed Rosemary.

The teen frowned, feeling flustered by the disjointed conversation. "I rescued him. The doctors here-" She hesitated. Would it be a good idea to tell a bunch of crazy people that their doctors wanted to cut open one of the patients? But her hesitation came too late.

"What about the doctors?" Shelly poked her in the side rudely. She had a large interest in what happened to Tate.

Violet scowled at her for the poke. "Don't do that." She rubbed a hand over her side. "They wanted to operate on his brain against his will. I didn't think that was right."

She had the attention of all the women seated around her now. There was little new inside the walls of Briarcliff Manor and hers was the most interesting story they'd heard in a while. Unfortunately everyone would be kept waiting for more details because by then it was time to get in the pill line. The men had already gone through; now it was the ladies' turn.

...

Violet didn't get pills. Like many of the inmates, she got a cup of clear, nasty-smelling liquid to drink. She refused it at first but the dispensary nurse told her if she didn't take it, the orderlies would force her to take it. She had seen one such instance happen while she was working there and opted to take the medicine.

It tasted as bad as it smelled. She gagged a little then, getting an idea, headed over to the doorway where the orderlies were chatting with a couple of nurses. "Excuse me," she said with a little smile. Her stomach was doing cartwheels. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

"No," grunted one of the orderlies. She thought his name was Sam. "You can go when pill line's done."

She looked back at the line. There were still several people slowly grinding through it. "But I'm sick. I think I'm gonna puke." She put a hand over her middle and another over her mouth, like explosion might be imminent.

One of the nurses backed away but the orderly didn't look impressed. "You throw up," he said. "You're cleaning it up."

She must have made a strange face then because he and the other orderly laughed at her.

"Go siddown," the first guy told her.

Violet wanted to get outraged at him but the medicine was kicking in. She felt warmer. Pleasantly so. In fact, everything was feeling pretty darned good. She decided to retreat and think more about her options.

By the time she got to the table, she was feeling great. Woozy, boozy, a little off balance... but great. It seemed like she'd just sat down and the orderlies were calling them all to line up to go to the day room. She meandered over to the line, wondering distantly why she'd wanted to throw this stuff up. She was feeling better than she had in months. Maybe ever.

They were walking then. Violet shuffled along with the rest, eyes on the shawl of the woman ahead of her. She wanted a shawl too. She wondered where she might get one. She never saw any in the linen closets but there were so many that looked the same, she was sure they were hospital-issue. She thought about asking the old lady but then the woman started muttering to herself about how the doctors were trying to kill her and Violet decided she could wait to ask someone else.

..

Violet found the common area far less unsettling to be in, dressed as a patient and flying high on laudanum. The people didn't bother her as much, though they still seemed strange. She found her way to one of the old red sofas and settled into it. She shut her eyes for several seconds and felt like she was floating. She had to open her eyes to be sure she wasn't.

"Far out," she breathed softly. She was so very relaxed. "Oh, man. I should not be this high." She worried for an instant that she might forget herself. Forget her sense of purpose. She had to remember Tate. Tate. Where was Tate?

She looked around but didn't see him. She did see Shelly coming her way though. The blonde came and sat down next to her on the couch, one leg tucked up under her bottom. She had shoes on. Violet wiggled her bare toes and wished for some socks.

"How'd they catch you?" the other girl wanted to know.

Violet had expected trouble from her so the genuine curiosity came as a pleasant surprise. "On the road," she supplied.

Shelly lit a cigarette. She tipped her head back and exhaled a volcanic plume of smoke toward the ceiling before looking at Violet again. "What did you do?"

The brown-haired teen didn't understand what she meant at first. When it clicked through the thick drug haze, she smiled. It was a doped smile and Shelly could tell.

"Can I have a cigarette?" Violet asked.

"Sure," Shelly said but only after she checked to see how many were left in the pack she had stashed down the front of her blue jumper. She handed one to Violet along with a lighter. "What happened?"

A college-aged guy with dark brown hair joined them in the settee, taking the stained armchair where he sat and started writing in the notebook he carried. Violet paid him only peripheral attention. She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool sensation of the filtered smoke.

"We were going to head to Canada but the cops threw something out in the road. Popped the tires, I think." She had another puff from the cigarette and made a sour face. "Car went off the road and into a bush. Getting out was a real drag."

Shelly was hanging on the story and Violet could tell the guy was listening too so she added a little more. "We managed to avoid them for three days. The fog's what got us, I think. If it just hadn't been foggy..."

She was pretty foggy now. She smiled. "I'm Violet." Said to no one in particular.

"John," the guy with the notebook said. "A pleasure."

"I'm Shelly," the blonde said. A few days ago she'd wanted to tear Violet's hair out. Now, the girl was her best source of news and entertainment. "What happened to Tate? Why isn't he here?"

Violet shrugged. The motion felt kind of good. She blinked and her eyelids felt heavy. That didn't feel so great. "They, um. I think maybe they took him to operate on him. They said he has a tumor."

Shelly was torn. She knew Tate had headaches but she didn't trust the doctors at Briarcliff. "They better not hurt him or I'll kick their asses."

It was a hollow threat no one believed. John started writing and Shelly sank into her unhappy thoughts, worried about Tate. She thought of him as one of her boyfriends and ranked him pretty high on the list of ones she liked best. She was afraid the doctors would lobotomize him while he was gone.

Nearby, someone started to play the piano. Violet stirred, feeling like she was waking up. Only she didn't feel awake. Not really. The music from the piano was pitchy but she could tell it was because the instrument was out of tune and not fault on the part of the musician. Leaning forward, she could only see the knee of the person playing the old piano. The knee wore a man's uniform.

The tune he played was familiar but she couldn't place it. After a moment, she decided she would go over and ask. Getting up took more effort than she expected. Once she was on her feet she wandered the short distance to the piano.

Seated at the keys was a young man a few years older than Violet. Well-built and good-looking, he seemed out of place in the run-down room. He played well despite the poor instrument but he stopped when she came over.

"Hi," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I just... was trying to remember the name. Of the song."

He smiled. It was a nice smile. "It was meant to be 'Stormy Weather' but I don't think this piano's ever been tuned."

"Riiight!" Violet said, connecting to the title. "Bing Crosby."

The young man looked confused. Then he smiled tolerantly. "Frank Sinatra."

He plunked out a few bluesy notes and supplied in a fair impression of Sinatra:

 _Can't go on_ _  
_ _Everything I had is gone_ _  
_ _Stormy weather_

Gravity seemed to weigh more by the piano so Violet leaned on it while she listened. His voice was like warm butter and she liked the way his eyes danced when he looked at her. When he got to the end of the refrain she stirred to inject the next one. She wanted to sound like Crosby but she channeled a drowsy Ella Fitzgerald instead.

 _Since my man and I ain't together_ _  
_ _Keeps rainin' all the time_ _  
_ _Keeps rainin' all the time_

"You have a beautiful voice," the piano-man praised, letting the song dwindle and die. "You must be in my show!"

Violet looked at him curiously. "Show?"

He nodded then realized she must not know who he was. "I'm Dandy Mott." He stuck a hand out to her. "I'm organizing a talent show for the hospital. Say you'll be in it."

She was flattered but she wasn't sure whether to believe Dandy. "I'm Violet. I, uh." She looked around at the dreary common room. The other inmates had gone back to what they were doing-or not doing. She looked back at Dandy and smiled drowsily. What could it hurt to play along? "Sure."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Most the asylum experiences you'll read about in this fic are based on real-life accounts. In many cases, the only thing I've changed was the identities of the people involved: The acts were real. I figure with tales this horrible, there's no need to embellish. Some of the things I've read about are so awful I can't even bring myself to use them.

That said, there's gonna be some unsettling M-F sex in the near future. Please bow out now if you're underage or easily triggered.

Side note: 'Stormy Weather' is a hugely popular tune from the 1930's that's been covered by just about everyone in the industry. From Billie Holiday to Ringo Starr, Bob Dylan to Christina Aguilera, and-yes-Sinatra, Crosby, and Fitzgerald all covered it. With AHS being so song-inspired, I had to tap this song.

Next chapter: We find out what's become of Tate. Also: What's in the future for Ben's career? It's all coming next.


	2. Chapter 2 - Doctor Doctor

...

"I don't understand," Ben said. "You're transferring me to the children's ward?"

It was the afternoon after Tate and Violet had been incarcerated and his nerves were wearing thin. He'd already met with the police and with hospital staff about his daughter's sketchy future. Now he had to meet with the Reverend Monsignor Howard and Dr. Heath about his career. With his daughter being a patient at the hospital, he was expecting some sort of limitations but this?

"For the time being, we think it's best," the Reverend Monsignor said.

Dr. Heath took his glasses off and tucked them into the breast pocket of his lab coat. "We have the press on our backs and national attention on us. With your daughter being at the center of the recent escape and her being held here..." The older man folded his hands on the table that separated him from Ben. "It's best if you keep a low profile."

"But the children's ward-"

Dr. Heath held up a hand to stop Ben's protests. "It's the best place for you to disappear right now, Doctor Harmon. You can accept the reassignment or you can resign. It's your choice."

The priest looked sympathetic but Dr. Heath was solid stone. He folded his hands again. Ben frowned.

"Okay then," said Dr. Harmon. "When do I make the move?"

Dr. Heath lifted his square jaw. "First thing tomorrow. You can move your things today. Ask for Bridgette over in the children's wing and she'll show you to your office."

..

Ben's new office was yellow.

It was also ugly, small, old, and cluttered with stuff that didn't belong to him but the thing that struck him most about the room was that it was yellow. A dingy sort of mustard that featured mysterious stains and a hint of mold near one corner.

"What's all this?" he asked, with a wave to the room in general.

Bridgette, the horse-faced redheaded nurse who escorted him here, looked around and sighed. She was a plump woman who wore a peach sweater over her uniform. "I think it belonged to the last therapist we had. With the hospital being understaffed, we haven't had time to clean it out."

"How long ago was that?" Ben had to ask. The dust that had settled was hard to gauge by.

"Twenty years?" Bridgette guessed. She shrugged to Ben's incredulous look and clasped her hands. "It hasn't been in the budget. Frankly I'm surprised you're here."

Dr. Harmon remembered his smile. "I'm on temporary loan while... things settle in the sanatorium."

Bridgette's expression fell. No one had told her that the doctor was a temp. "Oh. I suppose you won't be needing the children's charts then."

The doctor looked surprised. "Why wouldn't I? Even if I'm only here a short while, I would like to know who my patients are. Doctor Heath didn't have time to tell me much about them."

The plump nurse mustered a small smile. "Very well, doctor. The break room is down the hall, to the right. You'll find the key there on the ring I gave you. There's an employee bathroom in there. Much better than the one the kids use."

She left him to the mess that was his new office. Ben looked around and sighed. It was going to take a lot of work to get the place into useable shape, so he rolled up his sleeves and started in.

...

"Good morning, Tate."

The man's voice reached the teen through a haze of drugs. He became aware of the fact that he was in a hospital bed. He could see the blankets and the foot of the bed when he rolled his eyes around but his head wouldn't move. Neither would his arms or legs. He couldn't see them because of the blanket so he couldn't see that he was fastened to the bed with hospital restraints.

Tate's eyes watered. They felt greasy. He found a man in a white coat standing near him and he tried to smile. But when he tried to talk, his tongue didn't work right. His mouth just made nonsense.

"It's all right," the doctor soothed. He reached above Tate's head and fiddled with something back there. "You're woozy from sedation. Try to relax." He stopped fiddling and looked down at his patient. He gave the young man a gentle smile. "I'm Doctor Heath. I performed your surgery. You'll be staying with me while you recover."

Tate smiled dreamily. The drugs had him flying so high, he felt like the doctor was inviting him to stay at a hotel. He wondered if Briarwood had a pool somewhere. He tried to ask but more nonsense came out.

"Shh," the doctor soothed more insistently. He picked up the chart that hung on the side of Tate's bed and wrote on it. "There are tubes down your throat. Don't try to speak."

Tate blinked a few times then tried to swallow. It felt strange. He became aware of other tubes as well: There were tubes leading from under the blankets at several points. He was too high to care beyond registering the situation.

"You're recovering very well," the doctor praised. "At this rate, you'll be the star of the ward."

The teen had no idea what he meant by that. Not that it mattered to him. He tried to wiggle his toes. He couldn't tell if he succeeded. Nearby, the doctor charted some more then hung the clipboard back where it belonged.

"You're doing well," Dr. Heath reiterated. "But it's nap time now. Sweet dreams." He turned a knob on the nearby IV stand then, increasing the sedative, and within seconds Tate was unconscious again.

..

When Tate next opened his eyes, he could hear music. Classical music.

He lay there listening to the thrumming sounds of cellos and the higher voices of violins. The instruments seemed to be playing together but at times almost competing. It was a flurry of spirited notes on the verge of a frenzy, playful with the feeling that things could turn violent at any moment.

"Death and the Maiden," Dr. Heath's voice reached him.

Tate turned his head toward the sound and saw the man to his right. He was charting something. He glanced over when his patient moved and favored him a tolerant smile. He resembled one of those soap opera doctors to the teen: Pristine lab coat. Haircut befitting a square of the _Father Knows Best_ influence. All he needed was a Bob Dobbs pipe.

"Schubert," the man continued, as though Tate had said something—which he couldn't, with the tube still down his throat. The doctor went back to writing on the chart. "Penned when he contracted syphilis. It's said he took mercury as a cure. Very common back then but unfortunately deadly poisonous. Some say you can hear death underscoring each of the four movements."

He put the chart back and tucked his pen into his pocket. Then he moved over to check the various tubes that connected Tate to the equipment flanking his bed. "He knew he was going to die." He paused to reflect. "Can you imagine? Feeling death closing in and putting it into music?"

Dr. Heath shook his head, smiled, and went back to his assessment. "He was broke when he died. So was Mozart. I suppose an artist is never truly appreciated in his own time. I understand that so well."

He finished checking and adjusting things then came to the head of the bed where he smiled down at Tate. The teen tried to smile back just because it seemed the thing to do. He felt detached from reality thanks to the drug drip. The music was floating with him and for a few moments he actually believed he was laying on music, not a hospital bed. It felt good.

"I'm glad to see you doing so well," the doctor praised. "Tomorrow, we walk. Sleep well, Tate."

He turned the knob on the drip feed then. The music and the room faded into darkness.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This is turning out to be a very musical episode. Death and the Maiden is a bipolar classical piece well worth listening to if you haven't. It's also a very creepy Roman Polanski film starring Sigourney Weaver, about a woman who was tortured by a man who moves in next door to her. As a side note, Polanski's wife, Sharon Tate, was killed by the Manson Family during the Tate-Labianca murders of 1969. I didn't realize Polanksi did the film till I went to look up the credit info for this author's note. Weird how this stuff keeps coming full circle.

Times like this, I really feel like I'm channeling this story rather than writing it. I couldn't plan this stuff if I tried.

Next episode: Violet's heading to personal therapy with Dr. Thredson. Maybe he'll understand why she stole his favorite patient.


	3. Chapter 3 - Violet Discovers the System

...

With lunch came another cup of the disgusting liquid medicine. It reminded Violet of the medicinal mouthwash her grandmother had around after getting a bad case of thrush in her mouth. It made the teen slightly nauseous at first but in a few minutes she was feeling great. Absolutely wonderful. Again she found herself wondering why she'd heard patients complaining about the medication. Sure, it tasted horrible, but the effects were amazing.

After lunch, Violet expected to go back to the common area but she was escorted by a big black orderly to Dr. Thredson's office. The guy looked a little frazzled in the wan light from overhead. His thick-framed glasses reflected the paperwork that was scattered across his desk. A cigarette burned in the ashtray, forgotten.

When the orderly pushed Violet into one of the wooden chairs before the desk, the doctor looked over. He shifted his stance and set aside his pencil.

"Thank you, Cecil."

The orderly, dismissed, stepped out into the hall. He left the door open.

"Hello, Ms Harmon," Dr. Thredson said. His smile was thin. "May I call you Violet?"

She shifted in the hard seat, acutely aware of the fact that she was only wearing a nightgown. She'd been given socks and she had the second-hand undies but the outfit was hardly ideal to wear while talking to a strange man. She tried to remember what her father had told her about Dr. Thredson but her thoughts were too fuzzy at the moment.

"Um. Sure. Doctor. When can I talk to my parents?"

The therapist's thin smile faded away. "I'm afraid I can't say at this time. Understand that they do know where you are and what is happening."

"Can I see my dad? He still works here, right?"

"Yes, he still works here," the doctor said. "No, you cannot see him. Right now we need to focus on you. Do you understand why you're here?"

Violet wasn't keen on not being able to contact her family. The whole thing felt strange to her but her fuzzy thoughts kept her from connecting that feeling with action.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "I helped Tate escape. You guys were going to do surgery on him without his permission. That's fucked up. Can I have one of those?" She motioned to the cigarette still burning in the ashtray.

Dr. Thredson lit one and offered it to her. Once she'd taken it he returned to his own, puffing on it twice before putting it out. "Do you know who Tate Langdon is?"

The corner of the girl's mouth twitched in a small smile. "Everyone knows who he is." Then she said more seriously: "I know what he did, Doctor Thredson. What he did was horrible. But that doesn't mean you guys get to butcher him up like- like-" The laudanum stole her thunder, leaving her grasping for words when she'd forgotten most of her argument already.

Thredson weighed what he would say next very carefully. "Mister Langdon has a medical condition that necessitates surgery. The surgeons believe it could be the reason he did what he did—or part of the reason, at any rate. Regardless, without surgery, he would die."

Violet sucked on her cigarette and sighed the smoke out. "It should still be his choice. Nobody should get cut up in this country if they don't want to be."

The doctor arched a dark brow at her. How little she knew. "Be that as it may," he said. "What you did is very serious." He leveled a sincere look at her. "You don't seem like an irrational young woman, Violet. You do understand what you did is illegal, don't you?"

She sighed again and nodded. Her long hair fell over a shoulder, drab from the soap she'd had to use on it. "I know. But they were hurting him."

"We're trying to help him. Once Mister Langdon's recovered from surgery, he will feel much better. He's been in a lot of pain, for a long time," Dr. Thredson said. "Keeping him from medical treatment didn't help him, Violet. It only prolonged his pain."

Violet sucked on the cigarette some more, frowning a little. She didn't like thinking she hurt Tate. He had seemed pretty insistent that they pull over though. He'd slept so much and yet so badly because of the headache. She ducked her head and chewed on her lower lip.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Violet," the doctor coaxed.

She glanced up at him. "I'm thinking... I wish he didn't have to hurt. But you guys still shouldn't be cutting people open if they say no."

Oliver had felt so close there for an instant but that last sentence irritated him. He shoved the feeling down and racked it up to all the stress he'd been under lately. He jotted some quick notes, mostly to buy himself some time while he decided how best to deal with his latest patient.

"Tell me about your relationship with your father."

Violet shrugged and the roomy nightdress tried to slide off her shoulder. She tugged it back up. "What about him?"

Thredson steepled his fingers. "Do the two of you spend a lot of time together? Outside of Briarcliff, that is."

He meant her previous employment with the hospital but Violet saw her dad less there than she had outside the institution. "We used to but he and mom have careers." She decided not to mention the miscarriage. That was her parents' business to air if they wanted.

"Do you miss that time with them?"

Violet pulled a final drag off the cigarette then put it out. "Not really. We were never 'best buds' exactly. I mean. They're cool and all. But we like different things. Have different ideas."

Thredson noted that and nodded. "And yet you all ended up working here."

The girl squinted at him. "Well. Yeah. Why not?" She wrinkled her nose. "Do they still have jobs here? I mean. After.. me?"

Thredson had already told her that her father was still employed at the institution but he was used to such memory lapses in medicated patients. If anything, it was a reassuring sign to him. "Yes. Your father's been transferred to the children's ward but they're both still on staff for the time being."

Violet was relieved. If her parents lost their jobs because of her, she would feel terrible. "My dad's good with kids."

"Indeed," Thredson said noncommittally. He looked over his notes. "I'd like to ask you a few questions now, if I could."

The girl tipped her head curiously. She'd always thought what her dad did was kind of hokey and didn't like it when he tried it on her at home. Being the focus of a session was strange—like being on stage. She wondered if Dr. Thredson would know if she lied.

"Sure."

"Have you ever thought about committing suicide?"

Violet thought a moment then shook her head. "No. I mean. I've thought about the subject before. But I've never seriously wanted to kill myself."

The doctor wrote on his notepad. "Are you a virgin?"

That threw her. "Uh. I—Yes. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Someone who is sexually active has influences and experiences to consider that someone who isn't sexually active... doesn't have," Thredson explained mildly. "Are you a religious person?"

The answer made sense but the last question still felt a bit personal. "No. We're not very religious. We celebrate Christmas for the presents and the decorations."

More notes were made. "When did you first hear about the clocktower shooter?"

Violet's brow scrunched. Either the drugs were really slowing her down or the doctor's questions were all over the map. "Uh. Back... back on the news. The day of the shooting. It was all over the news."

The therapist nodded, remembering the instant replays all too clearly. "Is that when you became fixated on him?"

"I'm not fixated," Violet said and her lips curved in that small smile again. "I love how you people are turning this into some sort of... of..." She swore under her breath as the drugs robbed her of her words again. She was beginning to find the effects inconvenient even if the stuff did make her feel good.

Again, the doctor didn't wait for her to figure out what she was saying. "When did you decide you were going to kidnap Mister Langdon?"

"Kidnap?" she blurted and laughed. "I didn't kidnap him. I rescued him."

The doctor peered at her through those thick glasses. They were like window panes around his dark eyes. "Mister Langdon was under the influence of heavy sedatives. I'm curious to know how you got him out. He couldn't have been much help."

She sucked on her lower lip some and looked at him owlishly. He hadn't asked a question so she didn't feel obligated to answer. Unfortunately for her, the doctor was used to such communication barricades.

"I think that's good for today, Violet," the doctor said in that gentle, friendly tone of his. "Cecil will take you back to the day room. When you're allowed the opportunity, I would like for you to take Art Therapy. I'd be interested to see what you create."

The girl sat up straighter, suddenly concerned she was going to be sent back out without having addressed her most pressing concern. "Wait. Doctor. There's—" She paused and started again. "I think there was a mistake? Last night they put me in a room and there was somebody else in there."

Thredson's brow beetled and he jotted down a note to ask into the matter. "We'll get that straightened out," he assured.

Violet smiled. After the brusque treatment last night, she wasn't sure what to expect, but the doctor seemed nice so she went for broke. "Also, it's been really cold. This," she motioned to her thin hospital nightgown. "Isn't much for warmth. Do... you think I could get one of those shawls? I saw some of the women wearing them."

The doctor nodded. "I'll have the nurse get you one. Once you've settled in, I'm sure you'll earn the privilege to receive care packages soon. Your family can send you warmer clothing as well: Sweaters, slippers—"

"Settled in?" Violet repeated with a short laugh. "You make it sound like I'm going to be here for a while."

Dr. Thredson folded his hands on top of his paperwork. "The duration of your stay is entirely in your hands, Violet. We need to get to the root of what led you here. Until you understand and own that..."

He didn't finish the sentence and he didn't have to. The duration of her stay was, in short, indefinite. The notion might have worried her if it weren't for the fact that both of her parents worked there. The medication also might have something to do with her lack of concern, she knew.

"I guess I should get comfortable," she joked. The words soured in her mouth.

...

That afternoon, while those that could went off to occupational therapy, Violet was escorted down the hall by two of the nurses. One of them Violet recognized as Nurse Sweet. Despite the woman's name, she was anything but sweet. A big-boned woman in her fifties, the nurse was dour and judgmental. She always had bad things to say about the patients; Violet had heard plenty from her in her short time as a candy striper.

"Where are we going?" the girl asked.

"Oh, the Princess wants to know where we're going," the other woman, Nurse Leveal, said. Leveal was one of the prettier nurses but she had a strong grip on Violet's arm. "It's bathtime, Princess."

Violet didn't understand why the woman sounded so snide. She'd only asked a polite question. The answer puzzled her more. "I just had a shower..."

The women laughed coarsely and hauled her into the shower room. They didn't take her to the shower stalls, though, nor did they stop at the open cage-like ones. They took her back past that to a long row of deep metal bathtubs that were bolted to the floor. Violet could see ice floating on the surface of the water in the nearest tub. It was there that the nurses brought her.

"Now you'll learn what happens to pushy little princesses who complain to the doctor about the way they're treated," said Nurse Sweet in a nasty tone.

Violet's senses were dulled by the laudanum and before she could figure out what the woman meant, both of the nurses were on her. They stripped her down and threw her into the icy water. She sat up, thrashing and gasping, but they held her in the tub. One of the nurses slung a sheet over her head. The world went dark. Violet was freezing and could barely catch her breath through the thick fabric. She struggled harder, splashing violently, but another pair of hands joined the ones already holding her down.

Then the girl felt cold water rushing down over her trapped head. It was just as frigid as the water she was chest-deep in and it soaked right through the sheet. The material clung to her face, covering her nose and mouth.

She couldn't breathe.

She tried to break free but the people restraining her were too strong. More icy water rushed down over her head. She was drowning even though her head wasn't in the tub. Violet struggled with all her might, bruising her caught arms. Then she went limp as the world started to slip away into darkness.

The battered teen had the distant thought that she was dying, interrupted when the sheet was suddenly removed. She could breathe! Violet gulped air and tried to sit up but the hands held her down in the frigid water. She could see Nurse Leveal and one of the orderlies, Max, on either side of the tub.

"Get her out," Nurse Sweet said.

They hauled the girl out of the tub and tried to make her stand but she collapsed on the floor, too dizzy and weak to stay on her feet. No one helped her. Nurse Sweet threw something at her. In a daze and shivering violently, Violet fumbled with the thing. It was one of the institution shawls.

"There's your cape, Princess," sneered Nurse Sweet. "Do you want a tiara too?"

Not sure what she meant but assuming the worst, Violet shook her head. She hugged the shawl around her shoulders, to fight the cold and partly to stop the orderly from leering at her. It only worked a little for both.

"Get dressed," Sweet ordered while Nurse Leveal drained the tub.

Violet dressed as quickly as she could. It was difficult, shaking like she was. Her clothes were damp from all the splashing and her hair dripped down her back and over her shoulders. It hung in her face but this time the nurses didn't comb her. They just had Max take her to the common room.

"You want to warm up?" the man said on the way down the hall. He noticed her funny look and smiled. "I just saw you shiverin' and thought maybe you wanted to warm up."

She eyed him warily then nodded slowly. She was freezing. If she stayed wet and cold, she was sure she'd catch something. The orderly smiled bigger and tipped his head. "Follow me, Princess." He led her to a door that he had to unlock with a key from the ring on his belt.

"My name's Violet."

He glanced back at her, a little surprised she had the spine to speak up. Then he smiled again. "Violet. I'm Max. This way."

He ushered her into a narrow hallway. She hugged the shawl closer, glancing back when she heard the metal door clank shut behind her. Max locked the door again then moved past her to take the lead. The hall was so narrow, their shoulders touched when he moved past.

"Where is this?"

"Staff hall," Max said. "Shh. Our secret." He winked at her then led her to another door. This one was wood and didn't need to be unlocked. He poked his head in and, once he was sure no one was in there, waved her in.

It was a small, cluttered office. File cabinets and boxes of papers were everywhere. Under the room's only window crouched an old, whistling radiator. Max led the girl to it where she gratefully pressed as close to the hot metal as she dared. Through the barred window she could see a stretch of bare trees and the side of another brick building.

"Thank you," she said. She turned to warm her back and was surprised to find Max standing right behind her. She clutched the shawl tight around her shoulders.

"You're welcome, Princess," the orderly said. He reached out and brushed her tangled hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "You know. There's another way you can say thank you."

Violet stared up at him and her stomach knotted up. The laudanum couldn't kill the sense of dread that was growing there. "I... don't—"

He put a hand on her hip then and pulled her closer to him. The stocky man was only a few inches taller than she was but he was all muscle. "I think you do."

"Don't," she said, hating how small her voice sounded. She backed up but the radiator was too hot to go very far. There was no escape that way and Max had every other way covered. She glanced at the door beyond him, wishing she was on the other side of it.

"I can be real nice, Princess," said Max, petting her hip. He looked real sincere. "You just have to be a good girl and you'll get all the shawls you want. You want some shoes?" His brows went up encouragingly. His tone was sickening, it was so patronizing. "I can getcha some. I can even getcha candy, if you want. You like candy? How about some cigarettes?"

His hand crept around to settle on her backside where it squeezed. She whimpered and gripped the shawl tighter. She wouldn't cry, she told herself.

"Aww. It's not that bad," the man crooned, pressing closer. "I toldja: I can be real nice, if you're a good girl. You only have to worry if you're bad. But you're not a bad girl. Are you?"

It took her a moment but Violet shook her head. Max smiled big and his other hand pushed her nightgown up. "Good."

Despite the heat from the radiator, she was shivering again.

...

Max took her standing up, right there, moving to the side of the radiator just enough to use the wall as leverage so he could lift her feet off the ground. With her back to the wall, Violet could see out the small window. She focused only on the view outside and not the disgusting sounds the orderly made as he worked his way to climax. He wasn't rough but the act did nothing for her. The drugs she was on thankfully made it so she could distance herself from everything, if she just kept her eyes on the window and the autumnal landscape. Eventually he pulled out and shot his load into the folds of her dress.

"Sorry, Princess," he laughed as he tucked his cock away. "Guess I'll have to getcha a new dress too." He tugged the messy skirt straight. "Come on. Let's get you back to the commons before somebody wonders where you are."

He started her moving with a playful pat on her rear. Numb inside, Violet barely saw the halls as she was taken to the dusty red sitting room.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

There's the squicky I warned about a bit ago. Max sure loves his job. He's based on several different personal accounts I've read or heard from patients in wards in the late 70s and early 80s. Some of the asylums hired prisoners for work release, even convicted killers and rapists, because they were so short-staffed. So there was a good chance you'd encounter someone just like Max. Frankly, Max is nice compared to many stories I've heard about. Most didn't offer presents before brutalizing the patients.

Next chapter: Dr. Thredson earns some side cash and Dr. Harmon meets some of his odd new patients.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Forgotten Patients

...

"Six-fifty is the best I can do."

Thredson cleared his throat. "The school's always paid eight in the past."

The balding man across the table from him offered him an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry, Oliver, but the university's had to make cutbacks. It's the best we can do."

The news wasn't welcome but there was nothing Thredson could do about it. "I may have to take my business elsewhere." It wasn't just a threat; it was a promise.

The Dean of Biology spread his hands. "That would be a disappointment but you do what you feel you have to."

Not the response the doctor would have liked but he accepted the man's money regardless.

.

Later that evening, Oliver boxed the converted skeleton up. Selling the bones as medical skeletons to the university was a lucrative practice, and it was an easy no-questions-asked way to dispose of the bodies of his victims. It was a far less hazardous method than dissolving the remains in acid. The price was right, too.

The school assumed he was giving them the bodies of unclaimed deceased patients from the mental hospital. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

...

Ben's patient roster was short but strange. After clearing some work space, Dr. Harmon skimmed through the kids' files and found them morbidly fascinating. Each child's particular issue was specific to the environment they'd come from. Two had documented histories of abuse. One had no family at all. The boy who didn't speak had witnessed something traumatic but the doctor hadn't had the time to read deeper into what it was. He wanted to know more, but he'd already burned a lot of time just finding that much information about the kids in their disorganized files.

It was time to meet some of the patients.

He decided to start with Ophelia. Of them all, she seemed the most likely to be an 'easy' case. A sleepwalker, she was one of the two documented abuse cases. Her file said she'd been removed from her home a few months back and was placed temporarily in foster care, but her sleepwalking was too disruptive so she was sent to Briarcliff.

The patient rooms were down the hall from the offices, through a secure door. The wing was much like the adult wing except that they'd taken pains to paint the place with attempts at pleasantness: Some butterflies and flowers were scattered here and there, with an occasional rare bird. The murals were faded and grubby but still a step up from the adult halls, in Ben's opinion.

There were two large rooms in the children's ward where the majority of the children stayed. Further down the hall were individual rooms, where new kids and difficult patients slept. Even further back from that were two solitary confinement cells, padded for safety. The children also had a small, open area near the nurse's station where a couple of couches were stationed. An old radio was high on the wall, above reach. Ben met with Lucinda there in the sitting area. He felt it would be safer and more comfortable than his cluttered office.

He was surprised when he saw that the twelve year old wore mitten restraints. It made sense, on reflection. The patient was prone to eating things that weren't digestible and the locked mittens were an easy way to ensure she couldn't pick anything up small enough to put in her mouth.

"Hello, Ophelia," he said to the waifish, brown-haired child. "I'm Doctor Harmon. I'm a therapist. Do you know what a therapist is?"

The girl just stared at him.

"A therapist is someone who listens to you," he plowed ahead. "Whatever you feel like talking about."

She cocked her head, listening to him much like a dog would. Then she got up and walked off. He watched her go, thinking she might be going to fetch something, but she left the room completely. After a few moments he got up and followed after her.

They were in a locked ward so there was only so far the girl could go. He found her in one of the dormitory rooms, crouched beside a bed. She eyed him warily when he came closer.

"Don't be afraid," he said. He knelt down on one knee to shorten the distance between them. "I'm here to help you. If you don't want to talk right now, that's fine. Perfectly fine. I just wanted to introduce myself to you and let you know I'm here, if you do feel like talking."

He gave her a warm smile and then retreated. He didn't look back, just so she would understand that he fully intended to give her the space she needed. Then he sought out his next patient.

Maryanne was the next patient he spoke with. She was nine and wore her reddish-brown waist-length hair in a single braid down her back. She was pale and had dark circles under her eyes but was friendly when they met. He introduced himself much as he had with Ophelia, explaining who he was and why he was there. Since she was feeling talkative, Ben decided to ask her a few questions in the hope that he'd save himself some puzzle-solving later when he tackled the files again. He started with the most important one.

"Do you know why you're here at Briarcliff?"

"I killed a demon in my room," she told him matter-of-factly.

"A demon?" the doctor prompted curiously.

She nodded. "Uh-huh. I saw it before that night. I think maybe..." She paused to think, head tipping. "Five times? The first time it really scared me because I didn't know what it was."

"How did you know it was a demon?" Ben suddenly wished he was recording this. He hadn't meant to start a session with the girl but he was in too deep to pull back now.

"It looked like one," she said. She swung her legs since her feet didn't touch the floor while she was sitting in the chair. "It was dark brown and had glowing eyes. Like a deer's when lights shine on them only there wasn't any light. It sounded funny. Like... broken sticks. And it sniffed a lot on the ground."

Dr. Harmon wrote that all down in his own shorthand and then looked over at her. "Tell me about how you killed it. What did you do?"

She shrugged. She wasn't used to anyone believing her story and she found the attention both flattering and a little uncomfortable. "I made a bucket full of salt water and when it came back and started sniffing near the bed, I dumped the water on it. I had a water gun with Holy Water too but the salt water worked by itself."

Ben frowned thoughtfully. He had a hundred questions and really should save them for a formal session. He couldn't resist one last one, though. "Why salt water?"

"My Nanna said that's what keeps demons and witches away."

The doctor noted that as well and nodded, then sent a smile her way. "I really should introduce myself to the other children but I'm looking forward to talking to you more, Maryanne."

She smiled. She liked having a grownup to talk to who didn't treat her like she was weird because of the demon.

The next child on Ben's list was Robert. He was eleven and a scrawny boy with sandy brown hair. None of the children so far had looked very well-fed.

"Hi, Robert. I'm Dr. Harmon. Do you go by Robert?"

The boy sniffled and rubbed his nose, then twitched a tight shrug. "Robbie. Rob."

"Robbie." Ben smiled then glanced at his notes. "I understand you've been having some trouble sleeping. Nightmares?"

The boy shrugged again and looked down at his hands.

"We don't need to get into it now,"assured the doctor. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm here and available to listen if you do want to talk about your dreams—or anything you'd like to talk about."

He knew the boy also had issues with nocturnal enuresis: bedwetting. He suspected that might be why his young patient was avoiding eye contact.

Robbie pursed his lips. "Do I have to?"

"Eventually, yes," Ben said after a pause to decide how he wanted to answer that. He wasn't going to press anyone today, about anything. "Not today but in the near future... yes. We'll talk someplace more private," he assured. "No one will hear about what we say. Not even your parents, if you don't want."

The boy looked up then and the doctor was pleased to see hope in his young patient's eyes. "Really?"

Dr. Harmon smiled encouragingly. "Really."

..

After Robbie, the next name on Ben's list was Keith, but he was in physical therapy. The eight-year-old had been injured in a bizarre playground accident. He had fallen off a swing and hit the back of his head on the ground quite hard, then somehow got tangled in the chain and thrown forward, hitting his forehead on the sidewalk. He needed stitches in his forehead and therapy to remember how to move his legs. His family home wasn't equipped to handle his special needs so he was staying at Briarcliff until he recovered.

The injury was very strange, on paper. It didn't seem possible yet, despite the seemingly impossible string of events, the file said there were several witnesses who saw the accident and they all agreed that no one was close to the boy when it happened. Another case that raised a hundred questions.

Marcus, the next patient, didn't talk at all. The Italian boy had seen his whole family murdered and hadn't spoken since, according to his file. Ben introduced himself to the ten-year-old all the same before moving on to the next patient.

Lucinda was the last name on his list. The thirteen year old's copper hair was bound in twin braids and the freckles on her face made her resemble a ginger raccoon. She wore a bright yellow sweater over her pajamas. All of the kids wore hospital-issued pajamas.

"Do you go by Lucinda?" asked the doctor after he introduced himself.

"Lucy."

"Nice to meet you, Lucy," he said with a smile. "I know you've been having some trouble with your sleep."

She winced and nodded. "I sleepwalk. I have forever."

Dr. Harmon nodded. "Hopefully I can help you with that."

Lucy gave him the side-eye. "You can help me stop sleepwalking?"

Ben spread his hands to the possibilities. "Hopefully, yes. With therapy, it's possible. We'll talk more about it in private later. We can talk about anything you like but I think it would be best to look at your dreams and sleeping habits."

The girl chewed on her lower lip, seemed about to say something, then just nodded.

"It's good to meet you, Lucy," the doctor said after it was plain she wasn't going to say anything. "We'll talk again soon."

..

Ben was anxious about his own daughter, even though he had regular updates from trusted colleagues that she was doing all right. He knew in time he would be able to see her so he had planned to use his new patients' cases to distract himself. Their individual stories were far more complex than he could have known. As he dug deeper into their files, he found himself questioning whether he should return to the adult ward at all. These were no ordinary kids and the idea of leaving them without a therapist was unappealing.

Not that he had a choice in the matter, either way.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Danvers and Pennhurst asylums inspired this chapter. If you want real American horror stories, you need look no further than the histories of those shady places.

I'm not sure what to think about Ben's foray into the kids' ward. I may have to give him his own side-story, to keep him from taking this one over. We'll see.

Next time: We'll see how Violet's getting on in Briarcliff.


	5. Chapter 5 - Dandy's Follies

Violet had lost track of the days. She knew John could tell her because he wrote everything down by date but she didn't want to admit that she'd forgotten. Sitting in the common area after supper, she tried to sort it out. Max had given her a new dress and shoes on... her second day there? Third? Second.

She tugged at her stringy hair, mildly irritated that she couldn't remember. It was the drugs, she knew. She should stop taking them. John didn't take his medications. She was pretty sure Shelly didn't, either, though the girl denied it.

Allain, the red-haired orderly, brought a new girl into the room then. The young woman looked to be a bit older than Violet - perhaps Shelly's age - and she was wearing a viewing gown and a pair of socks. Her shoulder-length black hair was wet, soaking her shoulders. Suddenly Violet knew exactly what she must have looked like her first day here. She felt bad for the girl.

"Who's that?" she asked John. He kept track of everybody in the mental ward.

He was sitting in the armchair he favored and he looked up from his notepad. "I don't know. She must have just gotten here. Looks like Teddy's going to make her welcome."

They both watched as a middle-aged man with scraggly long hair approached the damp woman and engaged her in an animated, if one-sided, conversation. Nearby, an old woman lamented how she was damned. She did that several times an hour so no one paid any attention to her.

"What makes people think they're someone else?" Violet wondered. She knew she'd been trying to figure something else out just a bit ago, but couldn't remember what it was. That question didn't feel like it. She lit a cigarette and frowned.

John looked back to his notepad and started writing again. "Probably unhappy in their own lives."

The teen thought about that as she sucked on her cigarette. She wasn't very happy in her own life but she didn't feel the need to be some dead famous figure. Though Matahari could be fun. Or Annie Oakley. "Maybe I should pretend to be Amelia Earhart," she joked.

John looked over at her and raised his brows. "I wouldn't suggest it. You might find yourself getting shock treatment before you can bail out."

Violet sucked on her cigarette some more. "I wonder where Tate is."

Across the room, Teddy Roosevelt was shaking the new girl's hand enthusiastically. Elsewhere in the room, someone started banging on the piano, temporarily drowning out the sound of the record player. One of the orderlies came and closed the lid that protected the keys and drove away the retarded man who'd been hammering them. The sound of the singing nuns dominated once more.

Even in her drugged state, Violet was struck by how little there was to do in the hospital. Sure, some folks got to engage in music or art or even work odd jobs. But that hardly made up for the long hours of just sitting around, doing nothing. Having nothing _to_ do. All around the room, crazy people tried to invent things to do, to stop themselves going even crazier. Violet wondered how long it would be before she was standing on her head, singing to alleviate the tedium.

Looking out over the common room presented a strange and sad sight. So many lost souls, floundering in their own disabilities. Many of them talked to the air or muttered into their laps. The most normal-looking ones stood or sat around smoking and looking sad or bored. The rest ranged from unusual to outright lunacy. Most looked underfed. All except Jewel, the fat lady who took people's food at meals.

Violet looked over at John again. He was in his mid-twenties, with his brown hair cut in that floppy 50's look that could easily be greased back into a more contemporary style. With the stump of a cigarette poking out of his mouth and the pad of paper in his lap, she could fancy him the college reporter he claimed to be. The shadows under his eyes probably told the asylum's story better than the notes he kept.

"How are you going to get out of here?" she asked as she put her cigarette out.

John glanced up from what he was writing and flashed a crooked smile. "When I'm done with my project, I'll tell my liaison. I see him every two weeks during visiting hours."

Violet's brows inched up. "Yeah? That's cool."

"Used to be every week," he said. "But Joe—that's my professor-thought it might look suspicious." John paused to put his cigarette out and light another one. "Most people here don't get visitors, even if they have visitation rights."

"Wow." Violet processed the information through her sluggish brain. She still didn't have visitation privileges. She wanted very badly to see her family. She wasn't sure if they knew where she was, though Dr. Thredson had said they did. "Hey. I was wondering. How, um. How do you avoid the medicine here?"

The man smiled bigger this time but he saw something behind her that made him hesitate. "I'll tell you later." He nodded in that direction.

The girl glanced over that way and saw Dandy heading their way. He wore a nice white robe over his uniform and he was talking to a skinny man with a bushy beard. They made an odd pair: Dandy strolled casually with his hands clasped behind his back, looking like he owned the place despite the asylum uniform he wore. The older man, slightly shorter, gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke. Dandy waved him to silence when they got close to where John and Violet were sitting.

"Hello, Violet."

"Hi, Dandy," she smiled a drowsy smile up at the dark-haired fellow.

Dandy's chin lifted with his smile. "Are you excited for the show?" He looked John's way then. "I know you aren't in it but I hope you'll have fun watching."

The bearded man sat down beside Violet and stared at her with his strange eyes. She looked at him then at Dandy. "I'm not sure what I'm doing but... sure."

"We'll be doing rehearsals soon," Dandy assured. "Everyone will know their parts then. Oh, this is so exciting!"

The young man was soaring with elation—and the daily doses of drugs he was receiving. His mother had money enough to ensure he'd been treated quite well so far. The noise in the ward at night had been troublesome at first but the medicines that were weaning him off alcohol also helped him sleep much better than booze had. He missed his bottle but he wasn't about to tell the doctors that.

"I'm doing the lights," the bushy-bearded man smiled. He stuck his hand out at Violet. "Boyd."

Violet took the hand with some reservations. He offered it to John next, who had to tuck his stubby pencil behind his ear before he could shake. They both introduced themselves.

Dandy, impatient with the social niceties, reclaimed the conversation. "I have thirteen acts plus the grand finale. If it's good enough, perhaps they'll even let us perform for the public!"

That notion didn't seem likely to Violet but she didn't see what it would hurt to leave him to his delusion. "When are you wanting to put the show on?"

The dark-haired fellow smiled broadly, cheeks dimpling. "Halloween."

—

The shower room was cold that night. The temperature was dropping outside with fall coming. The cold earth leeched the heat right out of the brick sanitarium. It wasn't October yet so the heat still wasn't on. The water in the door-less shower stalls wouldn't heat up, topping out at lukewarm for the first few minutes before going ice cold.

Violet toweled off quickly with badly shaking hands after her hasty shower. She was blotting her hair when she heard a commotion down toward the bathtubs. Looking that way, she saw the new girl from the common room. There were two nurses and a nun with her. The young woman was clutching her nightgown and the nurses were trying to wrest it from her.

"I can't!" the patient protested. She sounded ready to cry. "I have pneumonia! The doctor said—"

"Stop being difficult!" one of the nurses snapped. Violet could tell it was Nurse Sweet.

The women tore the night dress from the girl and dunked her into the tub. They didn't put a sheet on her head. Instead the two nurses just pushed her underwater and held her there till her violent thrashing stopped.

Violet was afraid they'd killed her but after they dragged her up, the sick girl gave a ragged gasp and started coughing violently. The nurses were merciless: As soon as she'd had a breath, they shoved her back under again. They did that two more times. Each time the girl's struggles were weaker.

"Get dressed!" one of the nurses barked at Violet, startling her out of her horrified stupor.

She hastily threw on her the asylum-issued nightgown along with the sweater, socks, and shoes Max had given her. Then she followed the other women out of the shower room, leaving the sound of splashing water behind.

The women were herded back to the ward where they were expected to be in their rooms by lights out. Violet was still stuck sharing a room. The nurses had moved a mattress in for Violet so she didn't have to sleep on the floor but she got the impression they wouldn't have done it if she hadn't said something.

She curled up in the center of the mattress, in the nest she'd made of the blanket and pillow, making herself small to preserve warmth. Even though she was drifting on the comfort of another dose of foul-tasting dream juice, Violet couldn't shake the memory of the new girl in the bathtub.

It was such a shocking sight to see someone treated that way. And what if the girl was telling the truth? What if she had pneumonia? Ice water wouldn't help that one bit. It might kill her. Why hadn't the nurses listened to her? Violet supposed she could be a liar but after her own experience in the tub, she was inclined to side with the patient even though she didn't know her.

"It's so cold," Rosemary, her roommate, complained.

"I don't understand why they won't turn on the heat," said Violet. She peeked out from under her blanket at the other girl. "They have it on in the staff area."

Rosemary looked confused. "I didn't know that. The nurse said the heat doesn't come on until October."

Somewhere down the hall, one of the cell doors screeched open and both young women quieted. Soon after there followed the sound of a cane striking flesh and that of a woman crying out in pain.

Neither girl said anything else for the rest of the night.

...

Despite the circus atmosphere of the asylum, Dandy found it a challenge to fill up his talent show roster. While many of the patients were talented—some were exceptionally gifted, even!—many of those same individuals were too demented or drugged to perform on command. Trying to find diamonds in the rough in such madness was an exercise in the weird.

Dandy had narrowed it down to thirteen acts. When he was sure he had the list the way he wanted, he went to take it to Sister Jude. However, the guard at the heavy doors wouldn't let him through. He was irritated but the medication he was on kept his temper leashed, for the time being. He tucked the list away so he could pass it to his doctor, the next time he saw the man.

"It's too difficult to communicate in this place," he grumped to himself.

—

"All right, everyone!" Dandy called through the little megaphone he'd been provided. It was dingy and white but it amplified his voice nicely.

It had taken a good deal of charm and insistence to get some time with Sister Jude but his persistence had paid off and the nun had signed off on the final version of the show. The small troupe he selected was escorted to the chapel where they'd been given permission to use the stage for their rehearsal. Their monitors were three orderlies and one nun who had volunteered to help with the musical instruments. Boyd was there too, helping with props since there were no lights yet to operate.

Surveying the gathered patients, the young showman felt very proud. He had spent many of his free hours working on the flow of the show. There would be a small choir who would perform the intro segment and the final number. The variety acts would be wedged between. He had several musicians; a couple of singers; some dancers; he even had a fellow who could paint portraits at lightning speed using only Crayola watercolors and his fingers. Dandy himself had an act, just before the grand finale.

The troupe looked to him expectantly and he rewarded their attention with a sunny smile. He abandoned the megaphone, setting it on his stool to address his performers more intimately now that the room was quiet. "Thank you all for lending your individual talents. You are the cream of the crop here at Briarcliff."

A few of the inmates stirred, those who had never felt special before in their lives. The toothless trombone player smiled big.

"Sister Jude has graciously allowed us time and space to practice," Dandy went on. He clasped his hands, lowered his chin, and swept them all with a serious look. He arched his brows for sincerity. "Now I know we all have our little issues we're working on but we must all do our very best while we're working on the show to get along and do our parts to make this the very best show we can." He paused to make eye contact with a few of his volunteers. "If we all work together and practice, this can be amazing! You will all be stars!"

With that inspirational pep talk they set to work learning their individual parts and when they were to come in. Dandy especially liked working with singer Violet, and with Jennifer, the one-legged ballerina. They were both very pretty and seemed like ladies of quality, despite being in the loony bin. After all, Dandy himself was in the hospital. Anyone could be here, even ladies of quality.

Jennifer's missing leg wasn't due to poor breeding; the doctors amputated it just below the knee after a brown recluse spider bit her while she was sleeping. She'd told Dandy as much when he'd interviewed her for the show. She'd been fitted at Briarcliff with a peg leg of a prosthetic that was undoubtedly as uncomfortable as it was ugly but Dandy had plans for that.

When he'd first been brought to Briarcliff, Dandy was furious, but now he was starting to understand that all things happen for a reason. He was never going to break free from his mother's smothering hold on him, living at home. She would have happily kept him shut up in his playroom forever. He'd been languishing in that gilded cage. In Briarcliff, he would have his chance to shine.

If he'd known then what he knew now, he would have killed someone much sooner.

—

The shouts of the small crowd echoed in the long hallway as the two inmates circled and lunged at one another. Dandy had quickly become a fan favorite in the ward fights. He was strong, fast, and he wasn't afraid. His mother had paid for boxing lessons starting two years prior so he looked good when he fought, even when he didn't win—which was rare.

The man he was fighting was shorter than he was, a middle-aged Hispanic fellow who had a surprising amount of muscle on his bones. He had a mean glint in his eye; not the dull, plodding aggression Dandy had seen on so many of the Thorazine-drugged competitors he'd faced. This man, Juan, had the psychotic look of someone who had killed before.

He didn't scare Dandy. He had killed before, too, and didn't find the idea all that impressive. He went two and a half rounds with the Latino before laying him out with a solid right to the jaw. Cheers went up, money changed hands, and Dandy was escorted away to clean off the blood.

It was nice to be the winner: He got a warm shower and even got to use his favorite personal hygiene items. When he was returned to his room, he would find treats in his bedside table: Candies, comics, lotions—whatever he told the orderlies he'd like to have, except alcohol. They wouldn't let him have that. Yet. He suspected he might could get someone to break that rule eventually, if he played the game right.

—

That evening at dinner Dandy was heading to the table, his thoughts on that day's rehearsal, when weight suddenly hit him from behind. He stumbled forward and felt someone scrabbling on his back. Their arms closed around his head. White-hot pain seared through his cheeks and he heard people yelling. Enraged by the pain, Dandy twisted and slung his assailant to the side, into the nearest table. The table and bench were bolted to the floor so they didn't move when Juan fell against them.

Dandy's face burned but his chest burned more fiercely with his anger. He turned on the man, who rolled to the side and scrambled to his feet. Dandy took a swing at him, hitting him in the left side of his abdomen. Then the orderlies were there, tackling both men.

Two of the big men hauled the violently kicking Juan away while two others fought to restrain Dandy. He resisted at first but once Juan was out of sight he settled down. It didn't matter to the orderlies: They dragged him roughly from the dining room into the hall where a nurse jabbed him in the thigh with a needle full of something. The sedative was fast-acting. He was out in seconds.

...

Once order was restored in the cafeteria, the patients settled to eat, except for the unfortunate ones tasked with cleaning up the blood. That chores was given to those patients the staff were punishing. During the distraction, Jewel had gobbled down all of the pieces of cornbread on her side of the table and the ones she could reach across the table as well. Many patients were also missing their slice of overcooked ham too. There was nothing anyone could do: The food was eaten and the orderlies weren't in the mood to hear complaints.

Violet was worried for Dandy and she said as much in the common room after dinner. She was sitting with Billie Dean, Heather, and John near the record player. No one cared for the repetitive song but those were the easiest of the old chairs to claim.

"I hope he's going to be all right," she said as she tapped the ash of her cigarette in tray. "How did that guy get knives anyway? Scalpels. Whatever they were."

"What do you suppose they'll do to him?" Heather asked. She was sitting on the floor in front of Billie Dean, who was braiding her shoulder-length blonde hair.

"They'll stitch him up and send him back," John reckoned without looking up from his notepad. He had to chronicle the brawl while the impression was fresh.

Heather gave a small smile. "I meant the other man."

Violet sucked on her cigarette and considered the question through the laudanum haze. "God. Who knows? Where do they put you when you're too crazy to be around crazy people?"

"Solitary," said John. He tucked his pencil nub behind his ear so he could light a cigarette without losing it. "Padded cell. Straitjacket, maybe. Repeat offenders get ECT or worse. Sometimes they just ffft!" He made a motion over his forehead. "Give 'em a lobotomy. Those ones usually get shipped out to the farm where they're put to work. No brain, no pain. You know? They don't care about the work or the fact they only get paid three cents an hour to do it."

Though he meant well, the brown-haired man's story left a grim pall over the group.

Violet frowned. "Where the hell's my dad?" The question had been nagging at her. She knew Dr. Thredson said her parents knew where she was but she'd just assumed her father would find a way to sneak in to see her somehow. Her mother wasn't as likely, not because she didn't love her daughter, but of the two Ben was more likely to find ways to bend the rules in his favor. And yet he hadn't.

"Is he a patient here, too?" asked Billie Dean, trying to mask her surprise with curiosity.

"People disappear here sometimes," John added, brows hiking up.

Violet massaged the spot between her brows and squinted. She was having trouble thinking and the others weren't helping. "Shit. I need to get off this shit." She sighed and sagged back in her chair.

Rosemary joined them. There were no more chairs so John got up and offered his seat to her. She hesitated then smiled at him and sat down. He looked around, hoping to spy one of the stained old stools but they were all in use so he just sat down beneath the nearby barred window, next to the cold radiator. He went back to writing. Above him, a light rain misted the murky glass.

"That was so scary at dinner," the young woman said, her large eyes wide. "I really think I should be transferred. I shouldn't be here. This place is—"

Rosemary faltered but Billie Dean supplied: "Hell."

Violet thought about lighting another cigarette but that would mean moving and she didn't feel like doing that. "I wonder if the show will be canceled."

"Probably," said Heather gloomily.

Billie Dean clucked her tongue. "That would be a shame. It's given so many people something rewarding to do, that will be even more rewarding for everyone else when we perform."

She finished Heather's braid and tied it with a bit of yarn she'd traded Roberta a package of peanut butter crackers for earlier that week. The younger woman sent a smile of gratitude up to her.

"Hey, John," Violet said, recapturing a murky thought she'd had a day or so ago. Or maybe it was earlier that day. "How the hell do you avoid the meds here? I've been... trying and trying..."

The guy looked up from his notepad and then darted a covert glance around the room before answering in a low voice. "Keep pills in the little cup and just walk away from the window. Act like you're taking them only dump them into your hand instead of your mouth."

"What about liquid?"

His mouth tightened briefly at the memory of the taste. "Harder to avoid. Best way's to tuck it in your cheeks and spit it under a cushion. You can try swallowing it and then puking it up in the bathroom but it's pretty fast-acting shit."

Violet nodded and sighed. "I don't even know why I have to take it."

John smiled crookedly and looked back at his notes. "Keeps you docile. You're a real rebel, you know. I hear you're on Sister Jude's list for busting Tate out."

The girl snorted. "I'm not scared of that old coot."

Billie Dean looked concerned. "Violet," she said gingerly. "Please be careful. She's a very mean woman. I would hate for her to hurt you."

The teen shifted a little. She'd heard the noises in the ward at night. Still, she wasn't scared. "If she hurts me, my dad'll..." She frowned. She'd been going somewhere with that idea but now couldn't sort out where. Stupid medication.

Violet knew that she had to get off the vile stuff, no matter what it took.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The title "Dandy's Follies" is a direct reference to the Titicut Follies, a 1967 documentary about the horrible conditions of Bridgewater State Hospital. The government suppressed the film; they didn't allow its release to the public until 1991, 4 years after seven of the patients died from their abuses.

This and the next chapter (the last of this episode) got long. I don't mean to ramble on but these characters just don't want to shut up. I tried to fast forward with the start of the next episode, "All Hallows". We'll jump ahead a month but before we get to October, we have to check in on Tate. He'll be rejoining the main ward soon but Dr. Heath's not quite done with him yet. We'll also see how Dandy's doing after the attack and wrap up Skin and Bones.


	6. Chapter 6 - Breakthroughs and Breakdowns

The pair of runaways were separated, sent in two different squad cars to two different locations.

Tate was taken back to Briarcliff, to an awaiting throng of reporters and curious onlookers. Cameras flashed. Microphones were batted aside by the officers escorting the shackled prisoner from the paddy wagon to the manor. They hustled him inside where the Sisters barred the large oak doors against the prying public.

Violet was brought to court where a man who introduced himself as a doctor asked her a series of strange questions, like whether she'd seen faces on walls or heard voices. He took her temperature and pulse. Listened to her breathe. He thumped on her back a couple of times. She asked for her parents but was put off. The police had contacted her parents, she was told. They gave consent to her psychological evaluation.

After the doctor left, Violet was taken before a judge where an officer held onto her upper arm the whole time, even though she was handcuffed behind her back.

"Tell us truthfully," the droopy-jowled old man said to her. He had a craggy face but his tone seemed kind. "Why did help an inmate escape from Briarcliff Manor? Did he threaten you?"

The teen girl could tell the man wanted her to tell him that was indeed the fact of the matter. His caterpillar brows arched high above his rheumy eyes. "No," she answered simply.

The man waited expectantly. When she didn't explain herself, he prompted: "Why _did_ you do it?"

Violet pressed her lips together briefly while she decided how best to answer that. "They were going to do surgery on him against his will."

The judge scowled thoughtfully and rifled through the papers on his stately desk. He looked down his nose at a few, lips parted in an 'o' of concentration. "Ah-huh," he said finally and laid the papers down again. "Well, Miss Harmon, the fact of the matter is Mister Langdon's doctors know what's best for him and his health care is best left to them." He focused on her then. He folded his hands and the topmost thumb tapped out some of his next words. "What you've done is a very serious thing. It's the opinion of Doctor Lambert and of this court that you are not of sound mind. You're sick, dear, and you need help."

He scribbled some things down on his yellow legal pad then addressed her again. "You're to be remanded to Briarcliff's care. You poor, demented thing." His words would've seemed patronizing but for the genuine pity his watery gaze held.

"You're sending me to Briarcliff?"

Violet couldn't believe what she heard but his sad expression and single nod confirmed it.

"You may be transferred to Parker Hills Women's Asylum later at their discretion," said the judge. "But that will be for the doctors to determine."

She was led away from the judge's bench by the officer gripping her arm. They were almost to the door when the numbness of the verdict thawed and realization set in. If they put her in Briarcliff as a patient, she'd have another chance to help Tate.

She couldn't help laughing at their mistake, an act which only made her look even crazier in the eyes of the court. The judge deemed her hysterical and, clucking his tongue at the shame of it all, signed the order to have the girl committed.

...

While the judiciary system dealt with Violet, Tate was given less than a hero's welcome on his return to the asylum. He was given hypodermic sedation as soon as the doors were shut. He was out before they could strap him to the waiting gurney.

 _The room Tate found himself in was uniformly drab, despite being filled with old theater props and miscellany. The walls, the floor, the fainting couch draped in old clothes were all varying shades of bluish gray. But if the cluttered room bore the hues of a drowning man, Tate's clothes were no better, being what looked to be an acrobat's outfit from the mid-1920's. The cloth was an unattractive bone, stained and moth-eaten. Tattered lace decorated the cuffs at his wrists and throat, making him itch._

 _Looking around, the teen supposed he was in some sort of storage room backstage at a theater. The room's contents could have been interesting but there was a creeping sense of doom growing that Tate couldn't ignore. He could hear voices somewhere near, drawing closer. He didn't want the voices to find him._

 _Casting about, there didn't seem to be anywhere to hide. The room was cluttered but nothing was big enough to hide him. Then he heard a hiss of a voice trying to catch his attention from the shallow closet._

 _He looked inside and saw only darkness. He heard a child's soft voice urging him to look up and when he did he saw three young faces peering back at him through a square hole in the ceiling. He wasted no time in scrambling up to the shelf that supported the clothing rack. From there it was an easy climb up into the hole. He pulled his legs up and one of the children slid a panel of wood back into place and not a moment too soon: Tate could hear people entering the storeroom as the panel shut._

 _Curled in the darkness, Tate waited for his eyes to adjust. He thought everyone was staying quiet so they wouldn't give themselves away but as he grew accustomed to the gloom, he realized he was alone. The black was so complete, he could feel it on his skin like fog. He had to touch his face to make sure he still existed at all._

 _He was just beginning to think he should try crawling in search of the children when the nearby trap door exploded inward. Hands were all over him - so many hands - dragging him back down through the hole, fighting all the while. Bright light seared his eyes and hollow voices echoed all around him. He tried to fight but found himself paralyzed. The world wrenched violently and everything started to spin so fast he felt like he was going to turn inside out._

 _The spinning slowed but he couldn't see anything because his eyes were sealed shut somehow. He could only sense things. He could tell there were people around him, in a tight ring. He could hear their whispery chanting. They wanted to take his musty old clown clothes away. Cut them up. The scream of twisting metal tore at his ears._

 _Tate fought as hard as he could to free himself but he couldn't move. As he struggled, he felt himself weakening. Slipping away. The blackness crept in again, blanketing everything in silence._

"Well?" Sister Jude asked.

Dr. Heath tugged his facemask off. He'd already removed the bloody surgery apron and gloves before he came out of the operating theater. "The procedure was a success. The mass wasn't nearly as invasive as we'd feared. He'll still be under for a while but he's stable."

The nun's expression soured. The doctor looked surprised.

"Not the news you wanted to hear?" he asked.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," she responded loftily. "It's beyond me why he'd spare a life like that over others. I suppose He has his plans but it wouldn't have hurt my feelings any if your hand had slipped while you were working."

If the remark sounded callous, Dr. Heath didn't care. "I'd like to keep him in my ward while he recovers," he said. "For observation."

With the wards overcrowded, Sister Jude didn't mind that one bit. "I'm sure that can be arranged, Doctor."

...

Violet was roughly hustled down long, dreary passages by a big man in a white uniform. The guy had a nasty scar above his lip that made him look like a mobster. His grip on her upper arm was painfully tight and the pace he kept was so quick, she had to hurry along to avoid being dragged.

She was taken to a shower room where the man left her in the care of two women, a skinny older nun and the other, a middle-aged nurse with stringy brown hair. The nurse had a build similar to that of the man who'd escorted Violet.

"Take off your clothes," the nun said as the nurse started the shower in the open stall they stood near.

Violet was already cold and didn't relish the idea of stripping in front of these strangers. At that point she didn't see much to be gained from resisting, though, so she stripped. She suffered a brief moment of self-consciousness but it was plain neither of the women with her cared about her body.

The nurse handed her a sliver of soap to wash herself with. Stepping into the shower was a new type of misery as the water was freezing. Washing was difficult because she was shaking so bad. The experience was made even worse when she was made to wash her hair with the bit of Ivory soap. Once she was clean she had to dry off in front of the nurse. The coarse towel was immediately confiscated afterward.

Then the stocky woman cut the girl's fingernails, short and blunt, and not gently. After that the nurse took a comb to her, despite her protests that she could do it herself. The unsympathetic woman raked the comb through the teen's long, wet hair in brutal yanks that tore out snarls in alarming balls. When Violet hollered, the nun slapped her.

"Be silent!" the older woman said.

Violet was so surprised, she just sat there blinking at the skinny woman in the black habit. The teen's cheek burned where she'd been struck.

"You're in a place of God," the nun continued, sounding personally affronted. "You will behave yourself!"

Too shocked to respond, Violet just stared at her. The nurse resumed torturing the girl's hair with the comb. Violet winced but sat as still as she could, digesting the situation. Was this how all the inmates were treated on intake? Or was she being treated harshly for betraying the institution? Did they even know who she was? She wasn't familiar with either of them so she doubted they knew she'd worked for the hospital briefly.

After the crude grooming, Violet was given a baggy ward nightshirt to wear and a pair of ill-fitting cotton underwear that were clean but obviously not new. After she dressed, she was handed a bundle that contained a stiff wool blanket and a flat pillow. She was then hauled down more dark hallways till they reached one she was familiar with: The women's ward.

The nurse opened up one of the cells and gave Violet a push when the girl didn't enter fast enough to suit her. The door slammed shut behind her and the lock slid into place. The teen stood there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. In a few seconds, she could make out the outline of the bed and moved that way but she stopped short of climbing in when she saw there was already somebody in it.

She moved back to the window in the door and pressed as close as she could. "Hey," she called, trying to find a balance in volume to catch attention without disturbing the other inmates too much. "I think there's been a mistake!"

"Shaddup!" someone down the hall shouted back.

The nurse didn't come back. The person on the cot rolled over and muttered in her sleep. At a loss, Violet wrapped herself in the blanket and found a spot near the wall where she sank down. After a bit she put the pillow down on the floor and curled up tight to preserve what warmth she could. She didn't sleep much that night.

...

Early the next morning, Dr. Thredson met with the press on the front steps of the asylum. He had a statement written in his hand but he didn't need to look at it.

"The patient was apprehended late last night without incident," he was telling the array of cameras and microphones that poked up out of the throng of expectant faces. "Yes, someone did help him escape. That individual was also taken into police custody, also without incident."

Immediately some members of the press started to ask questions but Oliver held up a hand to stave them off. "I'm afraid I don't have more information for you at this time. Thank you."

The brush-off didn't please the reporters. They hounded more, demanding to know what Briarcliff was planning to do to increase security and what was going to be done with the person who assisted the psycho to escape? But all were ignored. The doctor and the other two hospital staff who'd accompanied him outside - the head nurse, Mildred Caldwell, and Sister Jude - retreated back into the sanctuary of the manor.

Outside, the Channel 3 news camera stayed on the ornate front doors till they closed. Watching from home, Constance Langdon lay on the sofa, glassy-eyed. A nearly-empty bottle of liquor dangled from one hand. The television clicker was in the other. As the news cut to the reporter on the scene Constance lifted the remote and, with a sharp click of the button, the TV screen went black.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Roll credits to this music: **I'm Right Behind You** by Ray Smith

Like Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, the creators of Amercian Horror Story and Glee, I'm very specific about the music I listen to and ask you to play during this fic. It really does bring another amazing layer of immersion and ambiance to the experience. For me, it heightens the emotional response to what I'm writing/reading/watching.

Next episode: We've cleaned up the blood. Now it's time to cut into the **Skin and Bones** as Violet discovers what life is like as a patient at Briarcliff.


End file.
